Swoon

Winter, 2017–2018 / No. 40

This is one of the strongman days, red

rust on the rock, a voice pumped up

on sun, then rain—reliable rain—

and snow on the steady peaks.

Swallows

swooping out of the blue

& dipping,

diving their hearts out, man oh man,

this may be a weak day ~

raven holds the swing vote

& you know

he’s in with his beak.

I am in my black suit,

also swaying sillily from the middle.

Nothing is as loveable

as the middle from the edge—

Something weighty

drops,

is falling,

something from

the inner ledge,

the sound of it

confounding

down, the

old thought-wanting

round & round

& here I go

again,

again.

O, purify me.

Circumcise

this mind.